


the desperate kingdom of love

by VegaOfTheLyre



Category: Robin Hood (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VegaOfTheLyre/pseuds/VegaOfTheLyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crown has barely settled onto her brow when John pulls her to her feet and kisses her full on the mouth. The crowd gasps and then begins to twitter anxiously, but if he doesn't care then Isabella doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the desperate kingdom of love

>   
> oh, love, you were a sickly child  
> and how the wind knocked you down  
> put on your spurs, swagger around  
> in the desperate kingdom of love  
>  **PJ HARVEY**   
> 

  
When he rides into the courtyard it is under the cold dim light of early dawn and Isabella, who has fallen asleep still dressed atop the neatly-made bed waiting up for him, is jolted awake by the clamour of metal and boots as he and a handful of squires bang into the room and begin to strip off his armour. 

"John," she says, groggily confused, starting up from the bed, but he doesn't look up at her, busy peeling off one of his gauntlets. She falters. His mouth, set in a thin line, works for a moment, and then he glances up at her. Eyes fixed on his, she flicks a hand at the boys in attendance and snaps, "Va t'en."

They leave.

Wordlessly, Isabella helps him out of his mail, dropping it in a ringing gold heap on the rushes. He shudders when he is free of the weight of it and rolls his shoulders, exhaling deeply. She runs a hand down his back and, gratefully, he leans into it.

"How did it go, then?" she asks finally, stripping him of his shirt. The fine white cloth is damp, streaked with sweat and rust and blood, and she balls it in her hands and casts it into a far corner without looking. He is not hurt, she keeps telling herself as her hands move over him; none of the blood is his. She gently works the rings off his fingers; three of his knuckles are scraped raw and angry, but John doesn't hiss, doesn’t answer her, and that worries her more than anything.

Isabella snags her lip between her teeth and then dips a cloth into the steaming bowl of water standing at hand. She begins to wipe his hands and face, and he closes his eyes and lets her. He is filthy in the pale morning light, blood crusting in his beard. She scrubs him clean, turning the bowl of water to brown murk in the process, and when she rubs the cloth once more down his neck and chest and then wrings it out and lays it down he drops his head unexpectedly against her shoulder. She is startled for a moment and then she brings a hand up into his matted curls to smooth his hair back from his face; he wraps his arms around her, pulling her suffocatingly close. 

"They made a fool of me, my love," John says, voice muffled, face buried in the disordered mass of her hair.

Isabella breathes him in, wondering what to say. A heartbeat passes, then ten. "But you won," she says at last.

He snorts as he straightens and draws back, touching her cheek lightly with affection. "Yes," he says. "Yes. We did. We bloody won. And a pretty triumph it was. My apologies to your uncle; it will make Christmas rather awkward, I'm afraid. Though, to be fair, we're not one for jolly Christmases in my family, I should warn you. Oh, the stories I could tell. Easters, now, they're a whole other story—"

"John," she says.

He looks at her, rubbing his jaw, and his eyes are grave. "It won't happen again," he says, voice deadly level and quiet.

Isabella nods, then tugs him close. "Rendors-toi," she whispers, and he bows his head and wraps an arm around her waist and lets her lead him to bed.

* * *

  
Isabella is out hawking one damp and windy afternoon when John gallops across the meadow in a frenzy, cloak billowing behind him, hollering. "Quoi?" she calls back, abandoning her ladies, gathering up her skirts and running towards him across the wet grass with terror clenching its nails into her heart as she thinks _Philip has invaded again, Longstride has risen in revolt, Richard is back from the dead and come to claim his throne_ , but as he flings himself out of the saddle and runs toward her she sees that he is smiling.

"We've got rid of her," he crows, seizing her hands and pulling her against him.

"Who, Eleanor?" she says, confused, as the wind whips her hair into her face.

John throws his head back and laughs at that. "Oh, madam," he says, raking her tangled curls back from her face. "We might dream. No, I'm afraid, only _my wife_ —"

Isabella squeaks and throws herself around his neck, and he, still laughing wildly, kisses her ear, her nose, every inch of her he can reach. "Got 'em," he whispers into her neck, and she is so happy she might cry.

* * *

  
And when they are safely wed she is crowned, at last, in an elaborate ceremony at Westminster. The crush of courtiers spills into the aisle as she makes her way down the length of the abbey, skirts of brocaded white and cloth-of-gold spilling about her, hair bound back under crisp linen, her face regal and calm. Calm, that is, until she glances ahead and sees John waiting for her on the dais, grinning and proud and infinitely pleased with himself, and she has to look away and bite the inside of her cheek to keep from spoiling the majesty of her presence.

The crown has barely settled onto her brow when John pulls her to her feet and kisses her full on the mouth. The crowd gasps and then begins to twitter anxiously but if he doesn't care, then Isabella doesn't; she stands on her toes and kisses him back, fingers tightening in the plush velvet and fur trim of his robes, falling into him like they are alone in their room with no audience but the figured tapestries that line the walls around their bed.

In a nearby antechamber, once the ceremony is done, he lifts the crown from her head and sets it aside. She sighs gratefully; the weight of it was already turning her skull numb with pain. "It's a wretched thing, I know, Mummy always used to say," John tells her, "but you wear it so well, my dear." He runs a finger along the underside of her chin, lifting her face up for a kiss.

"You flatter," Isabella murmurs against his lips.

"There's never a need," John says. He begins unpinning her wimple and veil, sliding the linen back off her head, shaking her hair out and settling it over her shoulders; it glints, gloriously rich, in the warm early-autumn light streaming in through the window. She looks at him questioningly, and he leans in and says soft in her ear, "Never wear one of those again."

"Oui, mon roi," Isabella says, eyes cast down, innocent and obedient.

John smiles. "My queen," he breathes. She looks up and grins and he, shaking his head, gathers her into his arms.

They are late for the banquet.

* * *

  
Isabella has learned that her husband is a study in contradictions. He has the keenest mind of anyone she's met, speaks and reads a fistful of languages, and keeps the finest library of anyone on his wet cold island, but he would never let anyone else know it. He treasures those evenings after dark when he is left alone with his books but would count it an embarrassment if anyone but she were to see it. She understands, knows that to a family like his the thought of caring about such things would surely be taken as further proof of his weakness, but she counts it a crime that he hides his brains, slumps languidly in his throne like a tanner in a tavern and drops his policies on his council like they are the whim of a moment and not the careful study of long hours into the night. He works hard but never shows it, cares for his kingdom more than anyone but pretends it all means nothing to him, treats his advisors like kitchen staff but wishes desperately and silently for their good opinion. He loves his dogs and horses but rotgut wine even better. He glories in pomp and display, revels in jewels and fine silks, but he is happiest of all when they are alone in bed with no more clothing than the blankets twisted around them.

Isabella rolls onto her back and looks towards the window at the high noon sunlight slicing through the cracks in the drapes. "You have a meeting, mon coeur, with William Marshal," she says as John traces his hand idly up and down her stomach, thumb curving in a crescent below one breast. "Had. Several hours ago, I think."

He makes a noise of dismissal. "I am king," he says, raising himself to cover her body with his, lowering his head to kiss her. "He will wait."

"He has been waiting, I am sure," Isabella murmurs.

John lifts her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Madam," he says, a note of warning in his voice. "Who gives the orders around here?"

"Me," Isabella tells him. "It's charming that you think otherwise, my lord."

"Vixen," John says, but with a groan he pushes himself to the edge of the bed, reaching for his robe. Isabella watches him, chin propped on her hand, and when he is dressed he leans back to kiss her again, hand lingering over her bare hip. "Wait here for me," he says.

"If you are lucky," she says archly.

"Oh, but I am the luckiest man in Christendom," John says. He holds out his hand, flat against the white sheets; Isabella smoothes her palm against his, and John twines his fingers into hers.   



End file.
